


Sempre

by eyeus



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e18 All In, M/M, Not using archive warnings for a reason, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Always</i>, John had promised—but he’d <i>lied</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sempre

**Author's Note:**

> Set after “All In”, S2E18. Many thanks to HelloMeo, without whom this fic would remain unfinished, and many more unwritten.

~

Like most days, it starts with the sound of even, precise footfalls, followed by the aroma of baked goods.

“For you,” John announces, in the way one might say _I come bearing gifts of frankincense and myrrh_. He makes his way to the workstation, setting a sencha green tea and a slightly grease-stained bag by Harold’s elbow. 

Even if the smell of fresh croquillants is rather tempting, Harold eyes the bag warily. “I’ve told you I’m in no need of comfort food, Mr. Reese.” John’s seemed to think that he needs a daily prescription of high calorie pastries and tea since his conversation with their last number, the retired watch repairman.

John shrugs, hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Just thought you could use these.” Bear yips from beside the computer. “And Bear too,” he amends, tousling the dog’s fur in short, affectionate bursts.

“We’ll have to enjoy them later, I’m afraid. The Machine’s given us another set of numbers.”

“Set?” John’s eyebrows rise archly. 

“I say _set_ , but the two numbers only came in within minutes of each other. I’m not certain the cases are related yet.” Harold retrieves several records and photographs, pulling them up on the screen for John to see. “Our first number is Ignas Pranciškus, forty-two, a mail carrier for USPS. He’s worked for them for eleven years. Immigrated from Lithuania fifteen years ago, with his wife and two children.”

“Living the American dream, I suppose,” John says, sipping at his coffee.

Harold shrugs, fingers arcing over the keyboard as he displays and maximizes a large map. “I’ve taken the liberty of accessing his usual route. It’s the same one he’s been following for months—I’ve plotted that in blue here—but recently, he’s been deviating from it. Three to four extra stops per day, none of them the same on a day-to-day basis.” 

The route-tracking interface he’s using overlays the blue path with a red, a yellow, and a green one, their jagged aberrations from the blue immediately evident. “It appears,” Harold says slowly, “that he also made one stop at our other number’s address, yesterday. Unfortunately, I don’t have much more than that, so you’ll have to find a way to get close and take it from there.”

“I’ll get eyes on the mailman,” assures John, slipping into his coat. “While I’m out there, what’ll you be doing?”

“I’ll be looking into our other number. To see if there’ve been any suspicious packages dropped off.” He taps a few keys inconspicuously, trying to look busy, if illegal access of the mailman’s financial records and credit statements can be considered _busywork_. 

It doesn't fool John.

Harold knows John’s trying to pin him with his gaze, and there’s a reason he can’t quite meet the blue eyes boring into him. Not this time.

John breaks the frosty silence between them. “Who’s the other number, Finch?” 

Something in Harold’s body language must give him away, perhaps increased respiration rate or stiffened posture, because John simply says, “Oh.”

He likes to think John can read the slightest changes in his body language because he’s more attuned to Harold somehow, instead of it simply being a product of his CIA training. 

“Finch?” Yes, John’s definitely sensed his distress, because he’s moving closer now, and Harold finds himself waiting for John’s hand on his shoulder, the effortless comfort he can count on John to provide.

It never comes. 

He tamps down on the kernel of disappointment that rises; somewhere in their partnership, Harold’s grown used to their casual pats and easy touches—the everyday reminders of their growing camaraderie and proximity. 

“It’s her, isn’t it.” John’s voice is curiously flat now, without affect.

Numbly, Harold nods, the full-bodied kind he’s done since his accident. “The other number is Grace Hendricks.”

~

“I’m following our mailman, and he’s showing some fairly suspicious behaviour,” John says. A slight grinding noise follows as he adjusts his binoculars, just loud enough for Harold to pick up. “He’s waiting for something. Or some _one_.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he’s staking out Grace’s home from the park.”

Harold draws a sharp breath; Washington Square Park, of course. He’s blended into the crowds there often enough himself. “Does it look like he’s armed? What’s he doing?”

“I can’t tell if he is or not. So far, he’s just made a few rounds of the park. He seems nervous, like he’s working himself up for something.” John pauses. “It doesn’t look like Grace is home, though. I haven’t seen any activity for the last half hour.” Harold hears a quick shuffle of feet, the telltale tap of stairs. “Finch, he just left the park, I’m moving in now.”

“Be careful, Mr. Reese. We don’t know if he’s armed. If he feels threatened, he’s more likely to engage in violent behaviour.”

“Thanks, Finch. I didn’t know it was _me_ you were worried about.” There’s the softest knife edge to his voice, before John deactivates his earpiece. 

Feeling strangely bereft, Harold sighs, turning on an app he’s jerry-rigged to track Grace. Despite John’s protestations, Harold insisted on being the one to tail her, and if she’s not at home, there are several more possible locations.

Fortunately, Grace is a creature of habit, and he finds her painting by a railing near the pier where he first saw her, minutes away from her home. The goal is to get her to safety, especially if the mailman has co-conspirators in the area. A chirped alarm sounds—it’s the app he created to tell him when he’s within a hundred meters of her. Harold disables it, takes a deep breath, and closes the gap between them. _Thirty meters…twenty meters…ten._ He walks up behind Grace and taps her on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Miss…Hendricks, is it?” Harold’s got a cap pulled low over his eyes, as he pretends to examine her painting. “But you’ll need a permit for—”

Grace turns, explanation at the ready, before the words die on her lips and all she manages is, “Harold.” She’s staring at him now, a mixture of shock, disbelief, maybe even joy. “Harold, is that really you?”

Perhaps he should have sent John, after all. “Grace,” he croaks. 

“Where have you—what have you been—I thought you were _dead_ ,” says Grace. She’s crying now. If Harold lets himself believe it, these are tears of happiness.

He opens his mouth, ready to reel off the cover stories and lies he’s invented, but at the moment they’re too exposed in this open park. “Grace, I’m afraid we don’t have much time. I need you to come with me.”

Grace nods, and hurriedly packs up her easel and paints. While she does so, Harold decides to check in with John. “I’ve got eyes on Grace. How are things on your end, Mr. Reese?”

There’s breaking glass, the grunts and thuds of a scuffle. “I’m a little busy here.” Two gunshots follow. Silence.

Harold’s heart threatens to stop, and he waits a second with bated breath. “Mr. Reese. Are you all right?” _John_ , he’s about to say, before his earpiece crackles with a short buzz of static. 

“I’m fine, Finch. It’s just a flesh wound.”

Harold breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m glad it wasn’t serious, but _do_ be more careful.” He swallows around the shameful lump that forms in his throat, at the thought of helping patch John up later.

“Where are we going?” asks Grace, and Harold manages to push aside those thoughts as he hustles Grace to the car, limping as fast as he can. 

It’s only when he turns to see if she’s following that he finds the sympathetic look on her face. “Oh, Harold,” she says, reaching for him, and something about that irritates him, because there’s really nothing to _Oh, Harold_ about—he can walk, he can function, he just can’t do little things like, say, turn his _head_ —

“Harold.” It’s John’s voice in his ear that grounds him, his aural presence as calming as a hand on Harold’s shoulder. “It turns out our friendly neighborhood mailman was ferrying cocaine for a drug trafficking ring on the side. I…haven’t had a chance to ask him how, though.”

“Did you at least figure out the _why_?” Harold asks, starting the car. Watching Grace buckle her seatbelt prompts him to reach for his own; at least one person in his and John’s partnership should practice some modicum of safety. 

“He tells me he desperately needed the extra cash for his kids’ college tuition.” A few clicks as John keys something into his phone. “I’ve subdued the mailman for now, sending you the information about the drug ring I got from him.”

Harold snorts. He’s familiar with John’s methods of subduing, many of which involve variations of _shoot all the kneecaps_. His phone vibrates twice; it’s the promised text message from John.

“I know you’ve got your secrets,” Grace cuts in, “but could you tell me a little about what’s going on?” She’s worrying the edges of her hair, rolling red strands between finger and thumb. 

With a nod, Harold says, “We’re looking into a case where a courier’s been smuggling drugs for a local drug ring. Have you received any large packages in the last while?”

“Just my order for a new set of paints. Yesterday,” Grace replies, confused. “I haven’t opened them yet, though. I was going to use up the last of my previous set today.” She gestures to the backseat, at the half-dried canvas and open paint tubes stowed in her bag.

“Did you notice anything…suspicious about the package at all?” Harold asks. 

“Not really—wait.” She taps her chin, pensively. “Yes. I remember thinking it was strange that the package hadn’t been postmarked.”

Harold’s still connected to John, as usual. “Mr. Reese, I think I’ve figured out _how_ our mailman is moving the drugs. He’s disguising several of the packages as client packages, albeit without postmarks, and making the drop-offs at the deviation points in his route. He must’ve delivered one of the decoys to Grace and realized his mistake when his associates contacted him about receiving her package instead.”

“Well done, Finch.” It’s faint and there’s some feedback in his earpiece, but even so, he can hear the smile in John’s voice. Harold smiles back, even if John can’t see.

“I can’t believe he’d do something like that. The mailman seemed so _nice_.” Grace frowns briefly, before her face lights up again. “He was talking about sending his kids to college. One of them wanted to go into art and design too, can you believe it?” 

Her bubbly enthusiasm, even in times like these, reminds Harold of why he fell in love with her all those years ago. It would be easy— _too_ easy, if he let himself—to get swept away in it again.

“Sometimes it’s the harmless-looking ones you have to be wary of,” is all he says, after a moment’s reflection. 

“Yes,” says Grace, looking at him intently. “I see that now.”

Harold’s shocked into silence for a moment. “Look Grace, I—”

“I’m sorry,” she amends quickly. “I know that was out of line.” Grace gives him a cautious smile, one that radiates _I’m glad you’re alive_. “You must’ve had your reasons for doing what you did.”

“I…yes.” 

“Will you promise to tell me about them later?” She puts a hand on his knee, the one that’s started to tremor from anxiety, like the way she always used to. 

Harold stares at the proffered comfort before gradually pulling away. “Yes.” He clears his throat, smiles feebly at her. “But I’d like to make a quick stop to pick up my associate. He might be in trouble. And if he’s not, he can clear your home and check for anomalies, in case anyone’s gotten there first.”

Harold’s sure it’s nothing, but it’d make him feel better to stop by and see how John’s doing, on the way back to Grace’s place. Besides, the last time John described his injury as ‘not looking good’, he’d been shot almost fatally in the gut. Harold doesn’t like the implications of ‘just a flesh wound’ any less this time—not when John’s come to mean so much more to him.

“John.”

The reply is instant. “Miss me already, Harold?” 

It’s only been minutes since they last talked, but it feels too long to Harold. Not that he’ll admit it. Something bothers him about John’s response though; it’s missing its usual spark of playfulness.

“Actually, I wanted to tell you I’ve secured Grace. The package is at her place, but we’re nearby. I’m coming to you now. Where exactly are you?” He can follow the GPS signal, but it would be faster for John to just tell him, not to mention reassuring, to hear his voice through their wireless link. 

“Harold.” John sounds a little breathless, which seems out of place for someone as fit as he is. Infuriatingly enough, he doesn’t share his location. “She’s safe?” he asks instead.

“Perfectly fine, I assure you.” He looks over at Grace in the passenger seat; she’s shaken, pale, but otherwise all right. Another hesitant smile, from her. Harold allows a slight upward quirk to his mouth. 

“Good. That’s good,” comes the response. Harold strains his ears, and yes, there it is, that odd, shallow breathing he thought he heard. He eases his foot forward on the gas. 

“Mr. Reese, are you all right?” There’s no response. “Mr. Reese.” Then, more desperately, “ _John_.”

A few nerve-wracking seconds pass before John finally says, “Harold?”

Harold lets out a shuddering breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, but his lapse in attention costs him, because the car jolts _hard_ from a pothole on the road, threatening to snap his neck against the screws holding it in place. The motion sends his earpiece skittering away somewhere under the car seat. Rather than scrabbling unceremoniously on the car floor to find it, Harold punches “speaker” on the phone to reestablish their connection.

“What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking,” John says, “that maybe it’s time we stopped. Working the numbers, risking our lives. I know you’ve found Shaw. And maybe even Leon. They could take our place.” An odd rattling noise, like a wheeze before John speaks again. “We spend so much time ensuring the safety and happiness of others. I think…it’s time you started finding your own again.”

Harold’s already started shaking his head, because no, he’s spent a lifetime making his own happiness, and someone’s got to do this, _they’ve_ got to. Together. 

There’s something else nagging at the back of his mind; John’s not one to monologue like this. 

“Is this about what Lou said?” Harold asks. Following their work on the last number, he’d told John he would grow old with Grace, from afar. He’d meant that, yes, but through surveillance cameras and video footage, a love never consummated, because that was the cost of keeping her safe. 

What he hadn’t verbalized—partly because he couldn’t find the words, and because John had simply walked away, with neither pithy humor nor consolation—was that he’d also already made his choice, of whom to be with, to devote himself to.

“I don’t have much time left, Harold.” John’s voice is strangely distant, as if there’s some vast gulf separating them. “So I wanted to tell you…” He pauses for a rattling cough, a sharp hiss of breath. “I know we’d never have grown old together, but…I would have liked to. Or whatever approximates as ‘old’ in our line of work.”

“What are you talking about?” Harold can’t fathom why John’s telling him this. He looks to Grace for insight, because she’s heard part of their conversation, and it only takes a moment after seeing her stricken expression for him to put two and two together. John is _dying_.

No. He won’t even entertain the notion. 

“You said it was a flesh wound,” Harold hisses, as accusation slips bitter into his tone, bile rising acrid to his throat. “You _lied_.”

“I was an international spy, Harold,” comes the tinny reply in his earpiece. It sounds farther away with each word. “We do that.” John tries to laugh, but it’s a choked, burbling noise that makes Harold sick to his stomach. He tries to estimate the nature and extent of John’s wound, but the thought of him lying somewhere, mortally injured, is making it hard to concentrate. 

“Take Grace somewhere far away,” John’s saying. “Disappear. Be happy.”

It makes Harold see red, because damn it, John doesn’t get to choose for him like this, doesn’t get to force his hand. Harold made his choice long ago. 

A blaring horn somewhere off to the left, squeal of breaks dangerously close to the right. He’s dimly aware that he’s run exactly six red lights since realizing John’s predicament. He’d run more if he had to. “I’m close, John. Just hang _on_.”

“Harold.” John’s voice feels weaker, somehow. Faint. “I’m not going to make it. But I meant what I said. I want you to find the same happiness, the kind that you’ve given _me_. So thanks, Harold. I guess this is goodbye.”

“John?” he says helplessly. Harold’s unsure what that accomplishes. If he’s pleading with John to hang on, just a bit longer. If he’s demanding John not to make this choice for him.

There’s a tinkle of cheap glass shattering before the GPS signal that Harold’s been following wavers. John must have thought he could interrupt it by smashing his phone. Harold’s not sure what it says about John’s state of being that he can’t even destroy his cell phone properly to disrupt their connection. But he isn’t far, and he is damn well going to find John, so he follows the trail, past Washington Square Park, all the way to a secluded alley. 

Harold finds him collapsed against an overloaded dumpster, and it’s plain to see John simply didn’t have the energy to smash his phone. His eyes are closed and tight with pain, face pale and diaphoretic, fingers pressing a crumpled, blood-soaked rag against his chest. 

From a distance, Harold spots the mailman struggling like a beached whale in the twist ties securing his arms and legs, and bleeding from the knee. Harold eyes him icily. If John doesn’t make it, he’ll do much worse than shoot out the man’s other knee; he will _ruin_ this man.

“ _John_ ,” he says forcefully, turning back to him now, a command to rouse him. Harold tries to haul him up by one arm, while Grace supports John’s other side. 

John’s eyes flutter open. “Harold?”

“You’re going to be fine,” Harold promises, even though every ounce of his intellect takes in the pallid, sweaty face, the glut of blood over John’s shirt and hands and calculates terrible odds. Conversely, every cell of his body decrees that John _will_ be all right, John _has_ to be, because Harold can’t contemplate a life without him. 

They load him into the back seat, and as Harold makes to swing around to the driver’s side, Grace sets a hand on his elbow and shakes her head. She starts the car instead, as Harold shuffles into the back, cradling John’s head and upper body in his arms.

“We’ll go to New York General,” she says, a sound decision because it’s the closest hospital and John needs acute medical help. Harold only realizes belatedly it’s the same hospital one of their previous numbers worked at, a Dr. Madeleine Enright, trauma surgeon. 

John twitches Harold’s sleeve, a weak tug on the hand that’s absently stroking John’s hair. “Harold.” 

“What is it?” He leans close, despite the pain flaring up in his neck and back. Anything to ease John’s efforts at speaking. John looks so vulnerable, lying on his lap, and Harold suddenly can’t bear the thought that John was planning to die, all alone, without Harold by his side, in a dirty alleyway like an old dog finding its final resting spot. He curls his hand over John’s right hand, then thinks better of it and twines their fingers together instead. 

John whispers a name. It takes Harold no time at all to realize John’s told him his real name, and he feels a peculiar wetness slip out from beneath his glasses. “I know, John. I’ve known all this time.”

“Oh.” John blinks. A pained facsimile of a smile. “I thought you might. I just…didn’t want to die without anyone knowing my name.” It’s honest and unrehearsed, and slides under Harold’s defenses, lancing straight through his heart. 

“You’re not going to _die_ ,” Harold snaps. And because now he knows how to recognize when John’s been hurt (slight furrow of the brows, downward curve of the lines in his forehead, and oh, he should have _seen_ that, recognized the hurt he inflicted on John when he said he would grow old with Grace), he lowers his voice, tempers it with the most kindness he can muster. “You’re _not_.” 

When John’s glassy eyes start to slide shut again, Harold jostles him a little with his knee. “Stay with me, John.” 

He racks his brain for something to keep John’s attention; whispers to John _his_ real name, where he’s from. Personal details that keep John _here_ , just a little longer. And when he runs out of little info packets on his life, bytes he’s stored away for archival purposes, never to see the light of day again, he repeats them, over and over again, like a mantra, like a prayer, as if there’s magic imbued in the words that can keep John from slipping beyond his reach. 

John attempts to smile, his breaths growing shallower still, and as he bleeds out, Harold clasps his hand tighter, as if their joined hands are all that tether John to this world, to Harold’s side.

~

At the hospital, there’s a flurry of frantic motion and sound, the glare of too-bright fluorescents, and _god_ Harold hates hospitals, but there’s a team that can help John, headed by Dr. Enright. She’s “Maddie” to them now, though, since the time she discovered they were more than just Harold Crane and his asset manager, John Rooney.

“Left side hemothorax, secondary to gunshot, exit wound shored,” one of the team calls as Maddie rushes out. When she sees Harold, she instantly glances down at John, grim determination in the set of her mouth.

“Help me,” Harold begs hoarsely, clutching at her coat. “Help us. Or I—”

 _I don’t know what I’ll do._ It’s as if things have come full circle, with him echoing her words from before. He’s vaguely aware of her sharp nod as she extracts her arm from his grip to prep for surgery. A part of him wants to don the appropriate surgical gear and show up as second scrub again, but this is too personal, too close to home, and he can’t bear to watch. 

So he puts John’s life in the hands of the most talented trauma surgeon he knows, and waits. 

And _prays_.

~

In the end, despite Maddie’s best efforts, John expires on the operating table.

She comes out to tell him personally. When Maddie opens her mouth, Harold braces himself for consolation, like _You couldn’t have saved him, Harold. He was too far gone._ Instead there’s a hand on his shoulder, a firm squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

What follows are phrases like _severe blood loss_ , _resuscitation unsuccessful_ , and _wasn’t your fault_ , but it _is_ his fault, it _is_ , because he’d taken too long to track Grace, hadn’t noticed something was wrong until it was too late, hadn’t gotten John to the hospital in time, and hell, he hadn’t even told John to put on his damn bulletproof vest before he left. 

Harold stares and stares, unblinking, while Grace pats his back, says things at him, but he sees nothing, hears nothing, except the pounding in his ears, of his own heart bleeding out and beating its broken rhythm of _John, john, john_.

~

Several minutes after, Harold manages to push aside the mass of _grief-rage-anguish_ rising in his chest, channeling the cold fury of it into a manic energy that fuels his fingers as they fly over his laptop keyboard. The information that John’s sent him on the drug ring isn’t much, but it’s enough for Harold to trace all the members, hack into their financial institutions, and drain their bank accounts. And though he’s aware that he’s crossed some moral threshold, he alters their criminal records to add false charges that will keep them in jail for a very long time.

He then forwards the address of their den to Carter and Fusco, whom he trusts to haul the whole gang in. 

As for the mailman, Mr. Pranciškus, Harold doesn’t have to do anything. Carter’s already picked him up and charged him with voluntary manslaughter. His children can still go to college from the money he’s made, but Mr. Pranciškus’ career as a drug mule is over.

Fingers slack on his keyboard, Harold falls back in his chair, eyes closed, exhausted. All of this, accomplished in the waiting room of New York General within minutes.

None of this will bring John back.

~

The second time he disappears from Grace’s life, it’s after he’s made certain arrangements for John, and driven her home from the hospital.

“So you survived the accident.” She stirs a cup of tea, sitting next to him in what used to be their couch, their home, but isn’t _theirs_ any longer. 

Harold nods. The package containing the contraband, which he’ll send along to Fusco as evidence, rests by his knee. “After that, the government recruited me into a special program to fight terrorism and crime.” 

It’s a slightly skewed version of their actual work, but that’s the problem with layering more lies on the foundation he’s built: once the initial lie starts, the rest snowballs into a massive conglomerate of deceit. Another sizeable snowball of white lies for closure, though whether it’s for closure on his part or Grace’s, he’s not certain.

“And you couldn’t let me know you were alive?” 

Bowing his head, Harold tells her one truth, at least. “I’m sorry. I wanted to. But with the work we do, people often seek retribution, and I…I couldn’t risk your safety.”

“Damn you, Harold,” she says quietly. While Grace has every right to be angry, it’s actually curious that she isn’t pitching a fit. Maybe she thinks Harold isn’t in the right mindset, because he’s just lost someone—

He resolutely refuses to think about that. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. It’s a poor offering, but it’s all he’s got. 

Grace only shakes her head, and when her tears slip out, shining bright upon her face, Harold aches for what he’s given up, for what could have been, but it just doesn’t compare to whom he’s lost, and for that he feels horribly guilty.

“If I hadn’t been one of your ‘numbers’, would you ever have revealed yourself to me? Or would you have let me go on thinking you were dead?” she asks.

There’s no good answer for that one, and Harold lets his head hang in silence.

It is, apparently, all the answer she needs. 

“At least tell me one thing,” she says, finally. “Was what we had real, Harold? Did you ever really love me?”

“It was,” he replies. “And yes, I did. I mean, I do. I mean—”

There’s a hand at his elbow, gentle, and a look of understanding on her face. “It’s all right, Harold. I get it.”

He’s of a mind to ask her just exactly what it is she _gets_ , but then she’s pressing a tin of coffee and biscuits into his hands—like a consolation prize of sorts—and ushering him to the door, and it’s no mystery what _that_ means. Before he leaves, she doesn’t ask to keep in touch, or even a chance to get back together. 

“Take care of yourself,” she says instead, with determined finality, but it’s said without malice or spite. Harold nods. This isn’t how he envisioned things ending between them, but he’s learned that not every story gets a picturesque ending.

“Yes, you as well,” he replies, but Grace doesn’t move and instead pauses at the door.

“Detective Stills.” She’s wearing that sad half-smile of hers, as if recalling a fragment of a lost dream. 

“What?” Harold furrows his brow, bemused. 

“I’ve been trying to remember when I met him. Your partner. He told me his name was Detective Stills at the time.”

 _Oh_ , breathes Harold, and immediately sets out to rectify that, because the name of that corrupt cop shouldn’t be how Grace remembers John, the best man he knew. “That wasn’t his name. His name was—”

Harold’s not sure if his voice breaks on the _was_ or the actual name, but he stumbles back, turning away from Grace, and limps to the car to flee back to his only haven. 

Except it isn’t much of a haven anymore; not when it’s missing its most vital part.

~

Harold swivels in his chair, small arcs that accomplish nothing except to burn off his anxious tension (not sorrow, or _grief_ , of course not). He’s safely sequestered in the Library now, surrounded by relics and reminders of the wealth he’s accumulated, prized first editions and rare signed copies.

He checks his financial records. There are billions, stashed in offshore accounts, under different aliases. 

The Machine spits out more numbers, because they never stop coming.

He turns off his computer, his phone.

He doesn’t care. He’s not even sure why. 

It’s not until Bear nudges at his knee, looking up at him with sad, mournful eyes that something in Harold’s chest fractures, because John’s dog— _their_ dog—is all that he has to remember John by, and all he can think of is how very _much_ he wants John back. 

The soft patter of rain against the window pane draws his attention, and he rises to shut the window he left open in an adjacent room, lest the floor be soaked with water later. As he makes his way to the window, the peaceful drops of rain multiply and morph until they’ve become a torrent of sharp, stinging needles, angry and vengeful.

It’s as if even the city mourns John’s loss. 

Harold throws the window open wide, lets the rain pelt his face, his glasses, as he stares out upon the drab grey world. 

The last time there was a storm like this, he’d been contemplating how to warn John about a serial killer, even if in the end, he was the one who’d wound up in trouble. 

Maybe it would’ve been better to let the serial killer murder him. Become him. At least _that_ Harold Gull wouldn’t have to feel this pain. 

Then he remembers John would brave hell or high water to find him anyway. The reverse is true as well; in fact, Harold _has_ braved high water, flying in that nor’easter to warn John about impending danger.

Harold smiles briefly before the memory flickers and dies. Thinking about that only brings back John’s amused expression at finding out Harold could fly. Thinking about _that_ only reminds him of the last time they were happy, and images rise in his mind, unbidden, of _Rashomon_ at a revival theatre, sharing an umbrella in the rain, John’s warm hand on his back, and what he wouldn’t give, what he wouldn’t _do_ , just to have that again—

He tears off his glasses and stumbles to his chair, sinking into its familiar weight as he grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

Harold Wren, of Universal Heritage Insurance, does not cry. Harold Gull, stormchaser and pilot extraordinaire, does not cry. Stronger men: Crane, Partridge, Crow, Finch, aliases upon aliases, fake identities built on a bed of lies, do not cry. 

But the truth is, Harold, shattered and lost without John, weeps like his heart is broken.

John always _was_ good at breaking people.

~

The funeral service is small, attended by a few: Carter and Fusco, and several of the numbers they saved, including Maddie, her wife Amy, and Zoe. The rest of the numbers remain blissfully unaware that the man they owe their lives to is gone. Harold tells himself he does not begrudge them their happiness.

Later, when everyone is long gone and Harold’s left wondering if he’ll scatter John’s ashes or keep them safely ensconced in the Library, he feels a solid hand on his shoulder. 

“John?” he says hopefully, before _remembering_ , and no, it’s Carter, along with Fusco. The expression on her face isn’t pity, thank goodness, because Harold can’t stand another pitying look his way today, but it crumples all the same. 

“Finch, if you ever need anything…” She stops, as if unsure how to finish that sentence. Unsure how an eccentric billionaire could need her help, but offering it all the same. John chose their allies well. 

“I’ll let you know, Detective,” Harold says quietly.

“Hey, same goes for me,” says Fusco. “You need anything, just call.”

Harold nods, before excusing himself and making a tactical retreat to his car. He doubts Fusco can give him what he needs. Fusco can’t bring John back from the grave. Not even Harold, with his infinite resources and technological savvy, can. 

Dead is dead. And gone is gone.

~

Despite his extensive knowledge of the Kübler-Ross model and the five stages of grief, Harold determines that ten days is more than ample to wrap up his grieving process, because there are things to be done and people to see. First in this order is to meet with Maddie, to thank her for her help, such as it was.

When they meet, he ignores her well-meant ‘how are you holding up’, and after ensuring the absence of surveillance cameras and windows, opens a suitcase. It’s stacked end to end with bills, neatly wrapped.

“I’m fully prepared to compensate you for your services,” he says briskly. “Services rendered several days prior.”

“Harold, no.” Maddie shakes her head, and closes the suitcase, adamant.

Harold blinks, undoes the catch on the suitcase again. He’s helped pay for a wing or two of the New York General; he can certainly afford to repay its top surgeon for her efforts to save the life most precious to him. 

“Consider it a donation to the hospital. For any patients we may have bumped out in trying to save—” His voice catches, unnaturally. Harold can’t say his name. He swallows hard, tries again. “To-to-to save,” he manages, before his eyes widen at the uselessness of his mouth all of a sudden, and that foreign-now-familiar wetness slips out from under his glasses again. 

“Oh, Harold,” Maddie says. She reaches toward him, arms outstretched. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps, but it comes out as this watery, warbly thing that shows he is decidedly _not_ fine, and suddenly he’s all too aware he’s never made it out of the denial stage, the very first stage of grief.

Her arms are around him and she’s rocking him, making soft nonsense noises, a susurrus one would use to calm a squalling infant, until the broken sobs wracking his body subside. When she pulls back just a little, Harold can see tears in her own eyes. How glad he is that he’s met a doctor who empathizes with him. 

Maddie meets his gaze, eyes level with his. “You loved him,” she says, in that frank, no-bullshit manner of hers. 

Harold freezes for a moment, then sucks in a shuddering breath, nodding, because _yes_ , that’s _it_ ; she’s pinpointed and given voice to the feeling that fills his chest fit to burst. It’s liberating, somehow, to know someone recognizes that he loved John. 

There’s also something familiar about the way Maddie’s looking at him now; it’s the look Grace gave him before he left, and _oh_ , that means Grace saw that he loved John too. Hell, even Carter and Fusco must have seen it.

“Did you tell him?” Maddie asks, and Harold pauses. He remembers trying to, coming close, but skirting around the truth each time. Their age-old _Finch, are you there? Always, Mr. Reese_ seems so woefully inadequate now.

“I thought there would be time later.” Maddie stares at him, incredulous. Harold’s voice drops to a whisper. “I thought he _knew_.”

It must take her immense effort not to roll her eyes in that moment, because all she does is huff a sigh and say, “ _Men,_ ” before returning to her remedy of rocking and soothing him. 

“It’s too late now.” Harold blinks hard, despite tear-swollen eyes. “He’s gone. John.” There it is, that’s what he hasn’t been able to say. He says it again, tasting the word, savoring the monosyllabic sweetness he’s deprived himself of for so long. “John. _My_ John.” He clings to her white, hospital-issue coat, no longer pristine for the tears he’s shed on her. 

Maddie gives him an odd, sidelong glance. “It’s never too late.”

Harold wipes away the salt tracks from his face (evidence of his loss of composure, _unacceptable_ ), and looks up, confused. If this is about whispering the words to John’s ashes, he’s tried that—with unsatisfactory results. “What are you talking about?”

She breathes deep, closes her eyes. “Not that I condone this, but…”

When Maddie tells him what she actually means, Harold nearly forgets to breathe, his face cycling through a multitude of expressions as he meets the idea with disbelief, skepticism, but finally, determination.

~

Harold readies his supplies in a shoulder bag in the trunk, and sets out for the outskirts of the city on what seems like the darkest night, coupled with a smattering of fog. There aren’t any stars out either; almost poetic, considering what he’s about to do. Thankfully, Harold’s brought Bear with him, so if anyone tries to ‘mess with him’, Bear will eat them.

That being said, he can’t help but wonder if the dog’s diet extends to supernatural entities. 

When he’s close, Harold stops the car and walks the rest of the way, to find the last thing he needs: a crossroads, the gravel-and-dirt kind found only in more rural areas. He reaches into his bag, fumbles his way to the old, ornate box he’s brought with him. It’s got his photograph in it, along with a few ritual items, several of which garnered him raised eyebrows during their purchase. 

Maddie’s tale—one she swears by, as it was passed down by her grandmother—involves the procurement of a wish, in exchange for the soul. Harold’s aware of the general concept: striking a deal with the devil. A Faustian contract, in its most basic form. 

He follows the details of the procedure she outlined to him, as his search engines aren’t exactly equipped for the search “how to make deal with devil”; namely, burying the box in a hole that he and Bear dig out in the center of the crossroads. While they’re filling the hole back up, every time Harold thinks of packing this up and going home, he thinks of John—his smile, his warm hands, tea and donuts in the morning, his determination to go through hell or high water to get Harold back—and stays, because as long a shot as this is, anything is worthwhile, when you get a second chance to be with—

Well, he hasn’t gotten that _yet_. 

Besides, Harold would do the same to get John back; high water, he’s done. Hell, on the other hand…he’s not one for superstition or the occult, but knowledge of the other side could prove handy someday. 

Bear pushes the last of the dirt back in place with his nose, and stands dutifully by Harold. They wait in the near-dark, the only illumination from a cheap flashlight Harold’s brought with him. 

Nothing happens. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots.

Turning to Bear, Harold says, “I’m not exactly sure how these things work. Maybe there’s an incantation of sorts?” He turns to the center of the crossroads again. “I would like to invoke a contract with the devil. Please.”

Out of the darkness and fog, something ethereal forms, and Harold spots a pair of glowing red eyes, stalking ever closer. Harold swallows, his palms damp. He blots them on his pants, trying to stand his ground (and _not_ tremble, because dear lord, the stories about demons are _real_ ). 

Bear growls low in his throat, in warning, and Harold’s hand tightens anxiously on the leash, because Bear is safety and security and is planting himself between Harold and the demon, as John might have done if he were—

A voice slithers out of the fog, soft, sibilant. “What is it that you desire?”

“Bring John Reese back from the dead.” Harold pauses, and uses John’s real surname. No point having a demon bring back the wrong John and cheat him on a technicality. “Whole and unharmed.”

“And in return?”

“My soul.” The one bartering chip Harold still has that’s worth anything; he doubts human currency holds any sway in the underworld.

Something akin to a tongue, wet and sandpaper rough, licks his face in the fog. “You would do that?” it asks. “Trade your soul?”

Harold nods, because yes, he’s said as much, hasn’t he? These underground types clearly need a lesson in efficiency. Or a major bureaucratic overhaul.

The mist seems to stop swirling around him for a moment, as if contemplative. “You’ll get ten years,” it says. “And at the end of that, we’ll collect.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” Harold says, seemingly nonchalant, but all that resonates is _ten years_ , because ten years is more than he’d hoped for, more than enough to grow old with John—if working the numbers doesn’t get them first. He hopes the demon can’t sense the agitated hammering in his chest. 

“Then seal it with a kiss,” says the mist, and suddenly Harold’s surrounded by the choking fog as it permeates his body, the crimson glow of unholy eyes burning into his mind. It doesn’t feel like a kiss so much as an all-out invasion, but if this is how he gets John back, he’s willing to do anything. 

When the fog finally dissipates, Harold’s heart stutters against his ribcage, because he’s caught a familiar whiff of aftershave, sweet and subtle, the kind John used to use—and there’s an arm around his waist, strong, lean, a scratch of stubble against Harold’s jaw, hesitant lips against his and—oh, _that’s_ new, because he’s never kissed John, only in dreams. 

He doesn’t dare open his eyes. It would be a poor bargain, but just this would be enough, to have a shade of John by his side, even for an instant. He revels in the memory of John’s arms, John’s scent, takes in the taste of that mouth, of chocolate-glazed donuts and bitter coffee, because if he can just keep _this_ , it’s enough. 

It’s not until he hears, “Harold. _Harold_ ,” in John’s low, rasping voice that the spell is broken, but Harold resolutely refuses to open his eyes, tightening his hold around those shoulders, lest John slip away again.

“Harold, it’s all right. I’m here.”

When Harold finally dares to peek through his clenched eyelids, he’s looking up into the bluest, most dearly missed eyes he’s ever seen.

“John?” he whispers, hands trailing over broad shoulders, sinewy arms. “Oh, _John_.” He throws his arms around his partner, clasps him in the tightest embrace, as something in his chest is made whole again, that part sundered from him when John died.

“Harold,” John murmurs, his arms finding their way around Harold’s waist again, and that’s when the dam _breaks_ and the reservoir of emotion Harold’s been keeping pent up for so long finds its release, because he’s desperately pressing kisses to John’s eyes, his cheeks, his jaw, whatever Harold can reach, and nothing can keep him from this ever again. 

And because he knows better now, knows that he can’t expect John to realize how he feels through some synchronized neuronal synapse, he takes John’s face in his hands and says, “I’m not one to wax poetic, Mr. Reese. So believe me when I say this: I love you.”

“I…knew that,” John says, a little too quickly. He’s averting his eyes, studying some non-existent object on the ground. When he does look up, despite the poker face John gives him, Harold spies all the minor tells of John’s anxiety—the squaring of his shoulders, like he’s braced for bad news, the tiny crinkle at his brow, a slight downturn at the edge of his mouth—so many quirks and tics that Harold simply took for granted as part of John’s presence. 

He reaches up to smooth away the crease in John’s brow, kisses the corner of his mouth. “You’re wondering about Grace, I presume.”

John says nothing, but his eyes meet Harold’s, his own doleful and miserable. 

“I did love her, once,” Harold admits. John’s expression barely changes, but Harold spots the unhappy quirk of his mouth, and immediately seeks to soothe. “You should know, however, that I’ve closed the book on that chapter of my life.” He strokes a hand, reassuring, over John’s shoulder, noticing the way it relaxes under his ministrations. There’s relief written in John’s body now, from the tentative smile to his unclenched hands. 

Then Bear’s there, wriggling his way between their legs and panting happily, tail wagging furiously enough to rival a hummingbird’s wingbeat. He jumps at John with a delighted bark, and John ruffles his fur, grinning. It’s the same grin as the morning after Harold had rescued him from a bomb vest, the same intensity; brighter than the sun and almost too much to behold. 

Harold watches the two of them, numb with how he almost lost this, _had_ lost this, in fact, when John tugs him out of his melancholy, with a hand cupped behind Harold’s neck, guiding their mouths together in the dark of the night. John’s lips are soft and warm, and as his tongue touches Harold’s gently, it tastes like coffee and forgiveness, feels _right_ and natural.

 _Super_ natural, Harold thinks, shuddering both at the terrible play on words and remembering the unseen force with its haunting, crimson eyes. By the time they break apart for air, however, he’s put the pun out of mind, because all he can think of, as they reach out unthinkingly for each other’s hands for the walk back to the car, is that he is so very _glad_ he has John back.

~

When they’re back at the Library and John finds out just how Harold brought him back to life, he doesn’t chastise him for his idiocy, doesn’t immediately strike his own contract to void Harold’s. It’s a ‘thank you’, followed by the most passionate kiss Harold’s had, _ever_ , one that well reacquaints him with John’s pliant lips and lasts until Bear tugs at John’s pant leg with a low whine, pawing at his bucket of kibble.

“All right, all right,” laughs John. “ _Afliggen_.” Bear whines again but lies down obediently, while John glances apologetically at Harold. Neither of them are sated, but Harold takes the opportunity to appreciate how John looks this moment: a little breathless and flushed, his lips red and kiss-swollen.

It’s equal parts appealing and oddly endearing.

“So. Ten years, you said,” John establishes, as he scoops out a dish of the kibble. He flicks a glance at the glass board where they tape their photos of the numbers. Harold’s gaze follows his; they’ve agreed to continue their work on the numbers but to exercise due caution, meaning bulletproof vests and a definite reworking of their motto “no such thing as a risk-free life”. 

“That was the agreement,” Harold confirms. He taps a few keys, draining several of his accounts and setting up new ones, reviews his key investments. His email inquiries regarding a house near the city outskirts he hides in a trash folder, because that won’t be for a few years yet. If at all. 

Harold thinks John’s guessed about it already, though, judging from his discreet smiles earlier.

“And what happens at the end of that?” Pipe dreams of a home away from the Library aside, John is ever the realist.

Harold shrugs. “They send their ilk to collect my soul, I suppose.” 

There’s a short, glacial silence. Neither of them voice the improbability that they’ll make it to five years, much less ten. Then John circles the computers to stand behind him, rests his hand on Harold’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. Wherever they take you, I’ll go too.” His fingers trail a light, downward path until they cover Harold’s hand on the mouse. John’s palm is warm, a safe, reassuring weight.

“What, you mean we’ll just…go together?” Harold asks, disbelieving, but hopeful.

“Always,” John promises solemnly. He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Harold’s temple, to his cheek, before Harold turns, hungrily, into the kiss. As much as he enjoys the slow simmer of these feather-light kisses, he savors the ardent fire of the ones on the mouth more.

“Alternatively,” John suggests, when Harold actually lets him _breathe_ again, “I could deal with Hell’s minions myself when the time comes.” He glances pointedly at his gun on the nearby counter.

The look on John’s face says he is seriously _contemplating_ this. 

Harold can’t help but laugh at the thought of creating another alias—perhaps “John Rayner, Demon Slayer”. John joins in shortly after, and when Bear yelps in unison, Harold swivels his chair around, one hand raking fondly through Bear’s fur, the other cupping John’s face, like he’s something precious and rare. They share another kiss while Bear looks on between them, then another, and _yes_ , Harold could get used to this, this green-tea-coffee-donuts taste that is so distinctly _them_ and John’s arms around him, warm and real and _alive_.

He’ll cherish what they have right now: the Numbers, their Library, a surprisingly affectionate Belgian Malinois, and a life with each other. And when the time comes, well, they’ll cross that bridge when they get there.

He’s pondering the best way to tell John he loves him again when John murmurs, “I love you too, Harold,” against his mouth.

It’s sweet and sincere, and catches Harold completely off guard.

Harold blinks. “It’s common courtesy to wait until I’ve voiced the sentiment _first_ , don’t you think?” he replies, half-teasing, but when John withdraws just the slightest distance, Harold’s reminded of a defeated version of himself.

 _I thought there’d be time later_ , he’d said. _I thought he knew._

He reels John back in, slides both his hands into treasured salt-and-pepper hair, and presses a kiss to each corner of John’s mouth. Each kiss is a gentle testament of his affection, each breath following them a whispered _I love you_ against lips curved back into a smile. 

After all, there’s no longer any point in subterfuge—not when he’s been given a second chance to be with the one he loves.


End file.
